Marred and Mended
by balladsinthebluegrass
Summary: Rick's wounds from 710 were more serious than they seemed at first. Thankfully, Michonne is right there for him.


"Shit, you're bleeding on the carpet," Michonne groaned. "Just - just wait out here on the porch. I'll grab something to help."

Rick nodded wearily, backing his dusty boots away from the scarlet stains and holding his blood-soaked bandages to keep them from dripping further. He knew Michonne appreciated a clean house.

While Rick waited outside the front door, she rushed inside and hurried to their bathroom, grabbing clean dressing along with peroxide, a needle, and thread from their medicine cabinet. Stepping over the spots - _I'll get those later,_ she thought - she rejoined Rick where he sat on the porch swing in the late afternoon sunshine, his head resting against the back of the seat.

As tenderly as she could, she reached for his hand and gingerly unwrapped the saturated gauze. Though she tried to keep a straight face for his benefit, inwardly she grimaced. Already the wound had swollen and begun to fester, a sure sign of infection. "This is going to hurt," she warned him in a low voice, glancing up at his face. He nodded and pursed his lips, readying himself. Uncapping the peroxide, she liberally poured it on, allowing it to run in and all over the wound until the liquid was streaming steadily onto the floor of the porch. The white-knuckled grip Rick's good hand had on the armrest of the swing was the only sign of the pain the disinfectant was causing him.

"There," Michonne said confidently once she was sure the wound had been thoroughly washed. "Now let's wrap it up."

"What about those?" Rick asked wearily, nodding at the needle and thread.

"No, I don't think so after all, not yet," she responded as breezily as she could manage. "It should stay open for a while, let it get some air."

Rick nodded, and though he understand that meant the wound was even worse than she had originally thought, he said nothing. He simply allowed her to lead him to their bedroom, leaning against her with his arm around her strong but supple shoulders. Exhausted, he lowered himself to the floor with a groan, barely managing to toe off his boots before laying back against the blankets and pillows forming their pallet bed. A moment later, he was sound asleep.

Michonne sighed, fatigue from the day's events rapidly setting in. And she still had a bloody mess downstairs to clean up. Even so, she smiled. Rick had won the day and the future looked brighter than it had in weeks. She was proud of her man, bruised and bloodied as he was. _Hell,_ she thought. _That's when he's his best: when he's exhausted just about everything he's got to provide for his people. For our people._ She understood that was just his way, his nature.

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After a half-hour of Michonne's relentless scouring, the carpet and porch looked pristine again. She tossed all the soiled bandages in the kitchen garbage bin and gave her hands a good scrub in the sink before heading upstairs to check on Rick. He was still sleeping soundly, but beads of perspiration had formed across his hairline, dampening his curls. Michonne's brow furrowed with concern. Sure enough, when she placed her hand to his forehead, she felt his skin burning with fever. She gasped, pulling her hand back. The infection was progressing even more quickly than she would have supposed. An uneasy feeling swelled up in her stomach.

At that moment came the sound of the front door opening and closing. "Anybody home?" she heard Carl call up the stairs. Michonne turned away and hurried downstairs just as Carl was unsnapping Judith from her stroller after their post-supper walk. The blonde-haired toddler held out her arms to her stepmother, who swooped her up eagerly but distractedly. While Carl folded up the stroller and put it in the closet, Michonne quickly filled him in on the day's events and Rick's current condition.

"I'm going to head over to the infirmary and see what remains of Denise's stock of antibiotics," she informed Carl as she passed Judith back to her brother. "Keep an eye on him, and I'll hurry back."

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Denise's death had left Rosita as Alexandria's de facto health care provider. Though she was no doctor, she knew her way around antibiotics and first aid. The slim woman was busily reorganizing the shelves of prescription medications when Michonne walked in. "Lemme guess", she piped up archly before Michonne could speak. "Rick's bad off, and you need meds." She selected a bottle from one of the hundreds lining the shelf. "If anything's gonna do it, this will. One capsule twice a day." Muttering her thanks, Michonne was about to turn away when Rosita grabbed her arm. "He got that wound fighting a walker," the other woman warned Michonne with a level stare. "Maybe you shouldn't waste the drugs on him."

"What the hell are you saying?" Michonne gasped, her eyes wide. "That I should just let him die?"

Rosita shrugged, her face unconcerned. "I just mean that you might not be able to keep him from it, antibiotics or not."

Scowling darkly, Michonne asserted, "He's going to be just fine. Thanks for the medicine. We won't _waste it._ " Biting off the last few words and turning on her heel, she hurried out of the clinic. Her sick lover was waiting for her, and every moment she was away felt like too long.

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Upon her return home, Michonne found Carl at Rick's bedside. While Judith played on the floor nearby with some blocks, Carl had stripped his father to the waist and washed away the day's grime with a sponge. "Rick, honey," she murmured, crouching beside him on the pallet bed, "you gotta swallow these." Carl fetched a glass of cool water while Michonne sat Rick up, supporting him with one arm. He groaned something incoherent, his eyes opened barely into slits. As soon as Carl returned with the cup, she forced a pill into Rick's mouth and poured in the water. He sputtered and choked on it but swallowed hard a moment later. Gently, she eased him back onto the pillows and watched him for a moment, smoothing a few sweat-soaked tendrils back from his forehead. Her heart was pounding in her throat as she watched him draw in raspy breaths. She had never seen him this sick before, and she wished she could do more to ensure his well-being than just sitting at his side, stroking his good hand and waiting for the color to return to his cheeks, now as pale as the pillowcase he was laying against.

Carl shifted uneasily on his feet beside her. He remembered the last time he had seen his dad in a condition like this, after his fight with the Governor. He hadn't been sure then that his dad would pull through, and he had not even been sure he cared one way or the other. Now, though, he understood how precious his father's life was. They were on the brink of war, and the community needed him. He and Judith needed him. And the woman crouching by his side, her shoulders stooped with grief, surely needed him. "Do you think he'll be alright?" Carl asked in a low voice.

Michonne paused a long moment before answering. Her answer was different from the confident one she had given to Rosita, different from the carefree manner she had tried to adopt with Rick on the porch in order not to worry him. She knew her stepson well enough to understand that he needed the simple truth. "I don't know. He needs rest, and medicine, and he might get worse before he gets better. What I do know is that your dad is strong, and he knows we need him. If he can... he'll come back to us."

"Maybe we should go to the Hilltop and get Dr. Carson," Carl responded anxiously. "I mean, I know he's a baby doctor, but he had to go through med school like any other doctor. He'll know what to do. Or the Kingdom - they had doctors there, they helped Carol. They could help Dad, too."

Michonne shook her head regretfully. "I don't think they could do anything that we're not already doing: keep the wound clean. Give him antibiotics to fight the infection. Make him as comfortable as we can. If it gets worse, if we -" she swallowed hard before continuing. "If we have to amputate, we'll get help then."

" _Amputate_?" Carl's expression reflected the shock he felt. "God, like _Hershel_?"

"If he develops gangrene, we won't have a choice," she explained, one hand stroking Rick's hair gently. "His life is more important than his hand. Now, I'll get Judith down to bed, and we'll finish cleaning him up once she's asleep. These jeans are filthy. He needs a hygienic environment, clean clothes and clean bedding. The fewer germs he's exposed to, the better." Sighing, she rose from the bed and scooped up Judith. The toddler cast a disconcerted look at the prone figure of her father and whined softly. "Shhhh, baby girl," Michonne urged her quietly, patting her back as she walked her to the nursery. "We'll take care of Daddy. Everything's going to be alright."

Once Judith was peacefully resting in her crib, Carl helped Michonne lift Rick out of the pallet bed and onto a sheet on the floor. They removed his pants, torn and filthy, along with his sweat-soaked socks. While she filled a bucket with soapy water inside the en suite bathroom, Carl wrinkled his nose at the mess that was once Rick's favorite - indeed, his only - pair of jeans. "What should we do with these? Toss them out?" he called to her inquiringly. "They're barely more than rags."

Michonne shook her head firmly as she carried the basin into the bedroom and set it down next to Rick. "Let's hold on to them for now. _When_ he wakes up," she stressed the conjunction, "he's going to want them. Now, you head over to your room and leave this job to me." When Carl started to protest, she added, "I'll call for you if I need your help or if he gets worse, don't worry."

Once they were alone, Michonne swept her eyes over Rick's unconscious form. The arms that had so recently embraced her after his victory over the armored walker now lay slack and powerless at his sides. The hands that had caressed her face and body were still, one of them so wounded it might not recover. The body she knew so well, having spent many nights exploring its peaks and plains, was utterly motionless save for the shaky rise and fall of his chest. With tears gathering in her eyes, she leaned over and lightly rested her head on his chest, just enough to enable her to hear his heartbeat. She knew that of course it would be there, but somehow the sound of it gently and rhythmically pulsing in her ear soothed her. That heartbeat was still strong and steady, and she took courage from that fact.

She reached for the waistband of his boxer briefs and eased them down his legs. She picked up a rag, soaked it in the sudsy water, then gently bathed all the areas Carl had not been able to attend to earlier, paying special attention to any cuts she found in his skin. The last thing he needed was a second infection in another spot. The sensation of the cool air in the room against his damp skin roused Rick somewhat from his sleep. He half-opened his bleary eyes, croaking out, "Micho-" his voice cracked, unable even to finish her name. Quickly, she reached out and took hold of his undamaged hand, squeezing it to soothe him.

"I'm here, baby," she assured him, trying not to let her tears overflow.

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. " 'Course you are," he whispered. "So... tired..." His voice trailed off with the effort.

"Sleep now, my love," she urged him. "I'll take care of you." But her promise fell on deaf ears; he had already drifted off into oblivion again.

After drying him with a fluffy towel, she carefully pulled fresh underwear over his slim hips, followed by charcoal-gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. She folded his tattered jeans and left them on the dresser to attend to later before gathering up the soiled bedding and carrying it to the basement, putting it all in the washing machine to be laundered on the hottest setting. Upon returning to the bedroom, she arranged a fresh pallet bed with clean linens and blankets, then headed down the hall, through the deepening shadows of evening, to Carl's room.

"How's he doing?" the teenager asked after answering her knock at his door.

"Hanging in there," she confirmed. "He's all clean and ready for bed. Want to help me move him?"

"Of course," Carl affirmed without hesitation. "Whatever you need."

Once Rick was settled into his clean bed - he didn't stir once during the transition - Michonne breathed a sigh of relief. He looked better now that he was cleaned up, even if his skin was flushed with fever. "I'll stay by him tonight," she informed Carl. "You head on to bed. We don't know how tomorrow might be, so get some rest while you can."

"Alright," Carl agreed, and started to leave, but then suddenly turned and pulled her into a hug. "I'm glad you're here for him, for us. If it was just me and Judy, I - I don't know what I'd do. So... thanks." Michonne felt a lump welling up in her throat for what seemed the dozenth time that day. Not trusting herself to speak, she just nodded against his shoulder and hugged him back.

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True to her word, Michonne spent the entire night by Rick's side. Wild horses could not have dragged her away. She got little rest, awakened out of her uneasy slumber by his slightest movement, his every groan. Every so often, she would try to get him to swallow a little water so he would stay hydrated. _If he's still as bad off tomorrow,_ she resolved, _I'll have Rosita set up an IV line._ _I'll MAKE her do it if I have to._ Just before dawn, she administered his second dose of antibiotics. Around that time, Carl came in to check on his father. He was looking rather red about the eyes himself, but he assured her that he had slept well enough. Michonne just nodded and let it go. She could hardly expect him to sleep like a baby at a time like this.

"He seems about the same," Michonne admitted. "Not worse, at least, I don't think. His fever has remained steady, not going up. Maybe it's just too soon yet. Give the medicine another day or so to make a difference."

They both agreed it would be best for Carl to look after his sister that day while Michonne attended Rick, though she assured him they could switch places later if he wished. The day passed by placidly enough. Michonne mopped his brow and wetted his lips regularly, in between reading to him out loud chapters of Stephen King's _The Stand_ _._ He had mentioned to her once in passing that it was his favorite novel, and having never read it herself, she was glad to have the opportunity to acquaint herself with the book, though she wished it could have been under better circumstances. Of course, she had no way of knowing if he could hear her or not, but it made her feel better to think that he could, and reading helped the time to pass a little faster until his next dose of medicine. She had come to view that antibiotic as a miracle in capsule form as she waited for it to work its way through every inch of his body to heal all signs of infection. All of her hopes rested on it. The only time he stirred all day was when she cleaned and dressed his hand, the pain from the unction of peroxide enough to almost awaken him.

In the late afternoon, just as her voice was growing hoarse from hours of reading aloud, Carl knocked on the door and urged her to come down and eat something. He had a pot of vegetable soup simmering on the stove, he informed her, and she ought to help herself. With a small shock, she realized she had not eaten all day, had not even thought about eating. Carl insisted, helping her to her feet and practically shoving her out of the bedroom door. She shook her head, somewhat amused at someone having to take care of the caretaker. Downstairs, she found Judith in her high chair, happily building towers with her Cheerios. Once she balanced four or five on top of each other, she leaned over and snapped up the stack of cereal pieces in one bite. When Michonne clapped at her antics, she grinned broadly then opened wide to display her mouthful of Cheerio mush. "Oh, Judy," Michonne laughed. "You can bring the child to civilization, but can you make the child civilized?"

Judging by the stains on Judith's bib and tray, she had already had a helping of Carl's soup before her cereal, so Michonne ladled out one serving for herself. She was halfway through the bowl and thanking her lucky stars that Carl was of the rare breed of teenage boy who could actually cook when the doorbell rang. On the other side of the front door stood Father Gabriel.

"I hadn't seen the two of you around town all day," he explained with concern. "And I wanted to check that everything was alright."

Michonne smiled gratefully. "I'm glad you stopped by. Actually, Rick is sick; his hand got infected. You could see him, but he's been asleep all this time and probably wouldn't even know you're there."

"Oh, I understand," he responded in his characteristically soothing voice. "But perhaps I could pray over him?"

"Couldn't hurt," she replied quietly and stepped aside to let him in. "Just up the stairs in our room," she instructed, pointing up the stairs. "Carl's with him now."

Once she had cleaned Judith up, she carried her upstairs to join the others. Opening the bedroom door, she found the priest on his knees next to the pallet bed and heard him saying,

"-humbly beseech thee to behold, visit, and relieve thy sick servant Rick for whom our prayers are desired. Look upon him with the eyes of thy mercy; comfort him with a sense of thy goodness; preserve him from the temptations of the enemy; and give him patience under his affliction. In thy good time, restore him to health, and enable him to lead the residue of his life in thy fear, and to thy glory; and grant that finally he may dwell with thee in life everlasting; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

He then removed a petite glass bottle from his trouser pocket and poured a small amount of the contents into the palm of his left hand. The scent of fragrant olive oil filled the air around them. The room was utterly still and quiet, everyone present overcome with a sense of the sacred. Even Judith rested her head quietly against her stepmother's shoulder. Michonne was reminded of days long gone when, as a girl, she had accompanied her grandmother to church. Carefully, Gabriel coated his right thumb in the oil and leaned forward, anointing Rick's forehead by drawing the sign of the cross on his skin. Leaning back, he crossed himself, touching the fingers of his right hand to his forehead, chest, and shoulders, then stood to his feet. To Michonne, he said, "Now we will see what God will do."

"The prayer was beautiful, Gabriel. Thank you for that."

The priest waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, I didn't come up with that. It's from the Book of Common Prayer. But I have seen it work wonders before." And with a final reassuring hug for Michonne and a handshake for Carl, Gabriel took his leave of the Grimes family.

While Carl took Judith back downstairs for some evening cartoons on DVD, Michonne cast an uneasy eye on Rick's damaged jeans, folded and waiting on the dresser. She was strongly tempted to simply throw them out, as Carl had originally suggested. Those jeans had enjoyed a longer lifespan than any single article of clothing had a right to in days like these. However, she knew that Rick felt some sort of special attachment to them. It wasn't the sort of thing he had ever said out loud, of course; he wasn't given to superstition or even great amounts of sentimentality. Maybe it was the manner in which he waved away other jeans she had brought around once or twice, saying that he "had no need" for them. Whatever the reason, Michonne knew, somehow, instinctively, that if those pants were misplaced or destroyed, Rick would feel the loss of them keenly. That is why she set herself to the task of scrubbing them by hand because she knew they wouldn't make it through a cycle in the washing machine. That is why she pulled up a chair next to Rick's bed and stitched them back together, though she was no great seamstress and indeed, the outcome was rather pitiful in her eyes. He loved those jeans, and she loved him.

After another dose of antibiotics and a visit from Rosita, upon Michonne's insistence, to set up the IV line, the second day passed into night, and Michonne found herself getting ready to go to bed again with her still, silent lover. As she was about to shut the bedroom door, however, Carl came back upstairs after seeing Rosita out. "Michonne?" he asked tentatively.

"Yeah?" she paused, her hand on the doorknob.

"What if... what if my dad doesn't get better?"

She opened the door wider and searched his expression. "What do you mean?" she inquired.

"Well, Rosita said -" Carl hesitated a moment. "While we were downstairs, Rosita said that Dad's not going to get better."

"She what?" Michonne exclaimed, outraged. She knew the woman had been surly since Abraham's death, but telling a teenage boy his father is a hopeless case was going too far.

"She said people don't get better from walker attacks. And I know that, of course, it's just... I thought this was different," Carl sighed.

"It _is_ ," she confirmed. "That walker didn't bite or scratch him. The spike was on the thing's helmet; it wasn't one of the spikes driven through its body. Rosita is just-" she sighed and took a moment to check her anger. "Rosita is not in a good place right now, and she doesn't know what she's talking about." She took Carl's hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "We're going to make sure your dad pulls through this. I promise." And as Carl walked away to retire to his room for the night, he looked much more hopeful.

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Blurry lights and hushed sounds and half-caught images like wispy remnants of a dream nearly forgotten filtered through the haze under which Rick lay, passing in and out of slumber. Sometimes, sensations against his skin came through: soft cloth dabbing at his forehead, a warm hand in his - _Michonne's_? he thought, though he wasn't even sure he was the one who thought it, coming as it did like a whisper from far away. As soon as he tried to hold on to a thread of thought, it would break, and he would find himself drifting again. And now and again, words would come through also, snatches of sentences that seemed familiar but he couldn't quite place them, sounding, as they did, recited or read aloud in his lover's smooth alto: "If we don't have each other, we go crazy with loneliness. When we do, we go crazy with togetherness... No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don't..." But it was the pain that pierced his blessed unawareness, now and again popping it like a needle to a balloon. His hand _\- god, what's wrong with my fucking HAND? -_ seemed to be the source of his misery, agony emanating from it to all the other parts of his body. Everything hurt: his head pounded, his muscles ached, but his hand was worst of all. He was vaguely aware of tossing and turning in the sheets - _someone must have put me to bed -_ and moaning. These brief moments of awareness were over before long, however. Sleep would always overtake him, and mercifully he would tumble into the void.

He awoke sometime in the night, coming fully to his senses for the first time in... he didn't know how long, though it seemed like weeks. His limbs felt shaky and his bones ached, and he remembered the sensation from times he'd been down with the flu and in bed for days. _How long have I slept?_ he wondered. He moved his arm slightly and found it hindered, attached as it was to an IV line. Though it took a Herculean effort, he turned his head to the left and saw in the weak light of early dawn Michonne laying on her side next to him. Usually, she slept naked, but now she was wearing a tank top and yoga pants. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow as if she could awaken at any moment.

"Mich-" his voice cracked, coming out a hoarse whisper with his first attempt. He licked his lips and swallowed and tried again. "Michonne?" he could barely hear it himself, but she startled awake nonetheless.

"Rick!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "You're - you're awake!"

"I think so," he said with a dry chuckle. "What the hell happened to me?"

"Oh, god, baby," Michonne groaned, fighting back tears. She sat up and scooted closer to him. "You were so sick. You were out of it for days." Gently, she caressed his face with her fingertips, so thrilled to see him awake and looking back at her that she hardly knew what to do with herself. With a small, delighted gasp, she realized that his skin was cool once more; the fever had broken.

"Carl and Judy?" he asked.

"They're fine, just fine. Down the hall and still asleep. Carl's been so worried about you, but he's been amazing through this whole thing, taking care of Judith. I'm so proud of him."

He covered her hand with his own, bringing it up to his lips and gently kissing her fingers. "And you? You've been taking care of me this whole time, haven't you?" She simply nodded, finding herself quite unable to speak. Her lips trembled as she lay down beside him and snuggled in close, her head on his shoulder. "I thought I heard you," he attempted to explain. "It was so hard to focus, but I knew you were there. The whole time." He gave her forehead a kiss since that was the only part he could reach right at that moment.

"How's your hand feeling?"

"Like shit," he groaned. "But I think it's been worse."

"Here," she prompted, sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp. "It's almost time to clean it and change your bandages, anyways. Let's see how it's doing." With her aid, Rick was able to get into a sitting position; already, he felt some of his former strength returning. Gingerly, she removed the IV line from his other arm, then unwrapped the dressing around his wound and examined it carefully. The swelling had gone down, and the entire injury site looked cleaner and drier. "I think it's really getting better!" She exclaimed. "Later today, we can take you over to the Hilltop and see if Dr. Carson can stitch you back together. I could do it, but after everything that's happened... I'd feel better if a real doctor handled it."

"Sure," he agreed. "Whatever you think is best." He reached out with his good hand and stroked her cheek gently, then pulled her in for a hug. "Thank you. For taking care of me, taking care of the kids. For everything." His accent got even heavier when he was emotional, and the word came out, _everythang._ She embraced him tightly, her face pressing against his neck as if reassuring herself with the contact that this was really happening, Rick was healthy and back with her again. They remained there like that for a long moment, drawing comfort from one another, then Rick murmured, "I love you."

She pulled back just enough to look in his vivid blue eyes, now lucid and bright with health. "I love you, too," she returned to him with all her heart, then kissed him, long and deep.

There came a knock on the bedroom door, and they both called, "Come in!" in unison, then smiled at each other. Carl came in, carrying Judith on his hip.

"I thought I heard voices in here!" he exclaimed. "Judy, look who's awake!" The little girl squealed and hopped out of her brother's arms, running over to her dad and throwing herself on him in the biggest hug her small arms could manage. Carl stepped forward, his eyes shinning with happy tears he was only barely managing to hold back. "I'm glad you're okay, Dad." Rick managed to get to his feet with only a small struggle and enveloped his son in a hug.

"Me, too, Carl. Me, too. Michonne told me how you've been taking care of your sister. I'm proud of you, son." Carl hung his head, embarrassed, but a smile spread across his face, all the same.

"Rick, are you hungry?" Michonne asked, partly to give her stepson a way out of the spotlight if he wanted it, and partly because she knew Rick had not eaten in several days.

Enthusiastically, he replied, "God, yes, I could eat a horse right now."

"Well, alright, then", Michonne grinned. "Let's get you dressed, and I'll make you whatever you want for breakfast."

While Carl carried Judith downstairs, Rick asked, "Dressed in what, though? My jeans were ruined, nearly torn in two," he shook his head regretfully. From the look on his face, he considered this just as significant a loss as the use and health of his hand. Feeling almost shy, Michonne opened his dresser drawer and pulled out the jeans she had so carefully washed and repaired. Rick stood stock-still, utterly speechless for a moment, before his face broke into an enormous grin. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist and kissed her passionately, then said against her lips, "I don't deserve you, you know that? I really don't."

She shook her head, her heart full of love and thankfulness to have him back. "All that matters is that you're better and we're here now. We're together. And it's going to be okay." She sighed and rested her head against his strong chest as he pulled her even closer. She didn't know if it was due to Father Gabriel's prayer, or to the medication, or to her care taking, or to Rick's own indomitable spirit. Maybe it was some combination of all of it. But one thing she did know. "It's all going to be okay now."


End file.
